Mad World
by Katiebugg1321
Summary: Hawkeye POV. When the 4077th is flooded with wounded, Hawkeye slowly feels himself unraveling. HM with a heavy serving of angst.
1. When People Run In Circles

Mad World

By: OneSongKatie

Disclaimer: I don't own these guys, or MASH, or anything cool. I just like to pretend I do by spending hours of my life writing about them. You can be jealous. Meanwhile, MASH _really_ belongs to 20th Century FOX.

Summary: H/M. Hawkeye POV. Scary dreams, people randomly walking around in the middle of the night. Loads of angsty-goodness. This fic _sort of_ fits in with the other stories in the series. And by that I mean, I originally intended it to be a part of that arc, but now I'm not sure if it really works there. Consider the dream Hawkeye has at the beginning of Midnight Musings to be a lighter version of the one in this story.

Note: I wrote this last week on vacation after watching the movie Donnie Darko. There are quite a few shout outs to it throughout the fic, for those who have seen the film. (If you haven't, well, frankly, get your ass to a Blockbuster and rent it, right now. Scratch that. Read the fic, write a review—good, bad, terrible, death threats, whatever I'll take 'em—_then_ head to Blockbuster.) The song featured in the title and the story, Mad World, is taken from the movie's soundtrack, performed by Gary Jule, although I believe Tears for Fears originally recorded it. There's also a line from the movie in there somewhere, for posterity's sake.

All around me are familiar faces  
Worn out places, worn out faces  
Bright and early for their daily races  
Going nowhere, going nowhere  
And their tears are filling up their glasses  
No expression, no expression  
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow  
No tomorrow, no tomorrow  
  
And I find it kind of funny  
I find it kind of sad  
The dreams in which I'm dying  
Are the best I've ever had  
I find it hard to tell you  
I find it hard to take  
When people run in circles  
It's a very, very  
Mad World

_The sun shined brightly upon his face, though he didn't feel warm from it. It was morning, and a fog hugged the ground on which he stood._

_Looking down at himself, Hawkeye discovered he wore a black suit, and shiny dress shoes. _

_He stiffened, feeling a very old, very familiar fear creeping into his mind. _

_Hawkeye walked hesitantly onward. He knew this, remembered this—the green hill, the row of hedges, even the smell of honeysuckle in the breeze. He was ten years old at his mother's funeral. He could see now, through the group of bystanders to where the casket stood, waiting to be lowered into the ground. The stabbing grief that had dulled in the lifetime he'd known since this day returned swiftly now, momentarily stealing his breath. _

_In the dream, Hawkeye found it difficult to move. His throat hurt from clenching. _

_Suddenly, the figures began moving slowly towards him. He recognized with chilly dread the faces of friends he'd made at the 4077th. Everything was so confusing. This was wrong—they were wrong here. Silently the familiar figures each walked by him, touching him lightly as they faded back into the crowd. There was BJ, and Radar, Colonel Potter, Charles, and even Trapper. All wore black. Hawkeye went cold as Henry Blake solemnly walked past. This was wrong, he repeated silently. So very wrong. Then there was no one left. They'd all gone. He began to panic, realizing that right now—this moment, when all the guests began to leave—was when he was supposed to go say goodbye to his mother. _Your turn now, son, walk on up. Go tell your mother you love her. Say goodbye, Hawkeye_. His heart thudded in his ears, insisting he go onward. He had to go. As he began to move steadily down the aisle he noticed one figure remained beside the casket, staring on. Because the person wore a hooded garment, he could not make out whom it was. Then they turned. He stopped, shocked. This was wrong. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen._

Hawkeye jolted awake, choking on the scream threatening to surge out of him. The darkness of the tent seemed to be pressing downward upon him, causing his hands to clutch the sides of the cot to fight the sudden pressure. Shadows became solid shapes moving in the darkness, waiting to consume him completely. His breath came in ragged gasps, and Hawkeye found he was sweating despite the coolness of the night air.

He propped himself shakily on his elbows, frantically willing the unnatural rhythm of his breathing to slow.

He could barely think above the roar his heart made thudding violently in his chest. God, why was this happening? Why now? What did the dreams mean? And why, for Christ's sake, did they always stop right at that moment? Hawkeye swallowed.

It's not real. He repeated silently over and over.

_Not real._

Why couldn't he make himself believe that?

He resolutely pushed the damp hair out of his eyes. Swinging his legs over the side of the cot, Hawkeye knew he would sleep no more tonight. Not after _that_. He clumsily put his boots on, wondering where exactly he intended to go.

It didn't matter. Just out, anywhere, he decided. Anywhere but this _tent_.

It wasn't real. _Just a dream,_ he wanted to scream.

Hawkeye closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to finish that thought.

_A dream, which grew harder and harder to escape from with each passing night._

That's not true! He exclaimed inwardly, protesting that _that_ dream was no different from any other. But something laughed derisively inside his head and he knew he couldn't lie to himself. No matter how much he wished it so.

Hawkeye closed his eyes again. Unbidden, images from the beginning of the dream flooded into his consciousness.

_Mist shimmered over the grass in front of him. It was morning. He was walking through a set of hedges—towering hedges that loomed above him, casting their shadow over his eyes. He dragged his hands lightly over branches, moving through the row, searching for...for what? For the way out, he told himself. He was trying to get out. _

BJ mumbled something unintelligible across the room as he rolled over, jolting Hawkeye momentarily from his reverie. Hawkeye smiled thinly at his friend's sleeping form. _Thanks Beej._

At least someone was sleeping peacefully around here, he joked a little desperately, glancing in Charles' direction. It's no wonder I have nightmares, Hawkeye added quickly, with Chuckles over there snoring the brass section of Beethoven's 5th. Or was it something by Wagner? A little of both, maybe? Hawkeye continued to quip rapidly in his head in a mad effort to put the dream from his mind.

But despite this stream of manic thoughts, terror remained, whispering underneath the churning of his brain.

The tent suddenly felt very small.

_I've got to get out of here_, he realized with increasing hysteria.

Hawkeye finished tying his bootlaces, and, randomly grabbing a green uniform jacket, practically ran out of the tent. He stepped into the night air, breathing deeply.

Somehow the shadows seemed less oppressive outside, perhaps because the night was unnaturally bright. Despite the late hour, the camp was swathed in soft light supplied by an almost-full moon.

Feeling both comforted and a little unnerved by the brightness of the moonlight, Hawkeye stood motionless, staring at the camp. It looked so peaceful now—deceptively so. If he didn't know better—or worse, as was certainly the case—he would never guess that this site marked so much violence. So much death.

The sweat on his body dried swiftly in the chilly breeze stirring dust beneath his feet. He shivered in only a t-shirt and fatigue pants. Hawkeye slipped into his jacket, shoving his hands into its pockets.

Now what? He wondered, trying to ignore the trembling of his hands.

Hawkeye barely noticed when his legs began to walk. He moved steadily, as if he knew exactly where he intended to go. Had he _decided_ to go somewhere? He couldn't remember. It scared him that he couldn't remember.

Hawkeye wondered silently if he was losing his mind.

As if in answer, his hands continued shaking violently in the coat pockets. Hawkeye felt like yanking them out of the jacket and screaming at them. _Why am I so goddamned afraid? What is happening to me?_

He realized suddenly he'd stopped moving.

Looking up, Hawkeye furrowed his eyebrows. What had brought him _here_?

He continued to stare dumbly at Margaret's door. Was he really losing his mind? Hawkeye genuinely worried. Maybe he _was_ cracking up. Was that what the dream meant? A downward spiral into madness?

Now that he thought about it, maybe coming here _was_ his idea.

Hawkeye studied the door intensely, trying like hell to figure out what it was that drew him _here_. He had barely spoken to Margaret recently. Well, he amended, of course, by that he meant _other_ than asking her to retract some poor person's flesh back a little further or yelling for her to suction the blood pooling around another man's organs.

This place will kill us all, he thought grimly.

_One way or another_

Because it was killing him. Of that he felt irrefutably certain. Time had seemed to slow recently. No, that was wrong he decided. Time had been swallowed. Lost and never regained to the lives of men he'd saved. Or failed to save, he added absent-mindedly.

_Such a waste._ Hawkeye paused. Had he said that out loud? He sighed. This was happening more and more lately—the lines between conscious and unconscious blurring in his mind. Reality, for him, was little more than a strange, incorporeal idea, something he'd once known but had lost without realizing it.

And now he had trouble distinguishing between _it_ from the world in which he currently existed.

Hawkeye felt as if he lived in a constant state of waking sleep, operating mindlessly for countless hours before collapsing on his cot. He functioned, technically. He worked, he ate, he went to bed. Though he never _really_ slept.

Not without the dreams.

He shuddered. No, not dreams, nightmares. A dream is something happy, hopeful—something you wanted. And while he _could_ very possibly be losing his mind, he knew deeply he didn't wish for this.

No, Hawkeye decided, these were nightmares, in every sense of the word—a frightening series of images his mind concocted while performing impossible tasks in an impossible place surrounded by the blood of innocents.

Well, actually, he amended, he wasn't sure if it was his mind or _this place_ that produced the dreams. Nor did he know anymore whether the dreams were caused by his insanity, or whether they were, in fact, _driving_ him _to_ insanity.

Either way he was crazy.

_But how could he not be?_ He demanded angrily. He was always at least a little cold, and he _never_ felt rested, the food grew more heinous with each passing day, and the only thing that ever changed was the face of the person he operated on.

Hawkeye barely acknowledged the passage of time anymore. He thought maybe a month had gone by in this fashion. But he wasn't sure. It was so hard to know if it was today or tomorrow. Now everything seemed fluid—days and nights that ran into each other, fusing together to form one giant block of time unable to be measured by any means available to the conscious human being.

He hadn't really seen Margaret in days. Not since the beginning of this latest crazy parade of dismemberment, he cracked without laughing. He realized darkly it wasn't funny. Well, maybe it was. But he was too exhausted to care either way.

It had been hell lately. It was hell in Hell, he joked, almost angrily.

He suddenly felt like laughing hysterically, but was afraid he'd start crying instead. The noise this produced cut violently through the quiet of the darkened compound, sounding like a strangled gasp, which, oddly enough, reminded him distinctly of someone who'd been stabbed in the throat, choking on his own blood.

Hawkeye knew exactly how this sounded because he'd treated a patient for that particular injury earlier this week. Lucky him.

But then, more wounded had flooded here in the last few days than he ever thought possible. Hawkeye sighed, exasperated. There was no time for acting like human beings, anymore. Just endless surgery.

It frightened him when began to consciously envy the wounded. At least _they_ left this place, one way or another, he thought. He never left. No, he remained long after the patient flew away in a chopper and died hours later because of internal bleeding after landing in Tokyo, or another who might've lived but died just the same because his ambulance crashed.

He used to feel angry about things like that. Working on a patient for hours, trying like hell to fight death, only to realize the soldier would die one way or another. That used to make him furious. Now he mostly felt cold.

When he thought about it now, he realized it had been a long time since he'd _actually_ felt warm. Such a simple thing—to be warm. You wouldn't think something like that would seem such a novelty. But it was.

He used to think, before Korea, that hell would be excruciatingly hot, full of scorching flames and burning, stinging pain. Now Hawkeye knew the truth. Hell was cold. A bitter, quiet cold that never stopped chipping away at your bones, no matter how close to the stove you stood or how tightly you pulled a blanket around you.

It had just been _so_ long. Too long. He was losing his mind, and these dreams—_this_ dream, continued to drive him further and further toward desperation.

Hawkeye couldn't help feeling that desperation wasn't really it. No, surely there was some darker fate awaiting him.

Maybe it wasn't a coincidence that he stood here, after all.

"Hawkeye?"

He whirled, startled by the sudden sound. Margaret stood a few feet away, staring at him oddly. "What are you doing?" She asked, not unkindly. He noticed immediately the shadows under her eyes.

He wondered idly how he could possibly answer her question without sounding like a lunatic. He couldn't help but think it was a bad sign when he couldn't find a way.

"Margaret." Hawkeye finally said with difficulty, staring down at her. He blinked feverishly, trying to clear his head. Fiercely brushing the hair out of his eyes, he suddenly noticed she wore her uniform under her coat. "Why are you wearing _that_?" He blurted out in a strange voice.

Margaret blinked at him. "I was working," she answered simply, without missing a beat. She stared at him through what seemed like impossibly dark eyes.

When he didn't reply, Margaret continued tiredly without changing the tone of her voice, "Why are you staring at my door, Pierce?"

Hawkeye studied her, his mind blurred. She looked strange tonight. He realized with a start it was her eyes. They looked glassier than usual, shining intensely through the dim light, half-hidden in shadows cast by dark circles underneath them. She looked_ haunted_, he thought a little afraid. It was wrong.

She was _wrong_.

In a brief moment of lucidity something occurred to him. "Didn't you work _earlier_ this evening, with me?" He asked, a little suspiciously. _That was a rational thought_! Hawkeye congratulated himself. He felt relieved for a moment that he was still capable of coherent speech.

Hawkeye tried not to notice the chilly stare in which Margaret now fixed him. Inexplicably, he felt the fear he'd only begun to suppress, rise yet again. _Focus_, he nearly shouted aloud to himself, _keep talking. _

She looked at him silently, her face a mask. For a moment he could think once more, and he realized Margaret's explanation didn't really make sense.

He continued slowly as the situation became more and more strange to him, "You and I left the OR at the _same_ time tonight."

Margaret shrugged. "So?" She replied diffidently. Her strangely dark eyes continued to carve into him, so Hawkeye closed his own. This was too hard. He didn't want to see her anymore. He couldn't stand the look on her face.

It reminded him too much of the look on his own.

This was terrifying. She _was_ terrifying. _Get it together. Say something_. He was fading again, falling down to the darkness he feared more than anything. He almost screamed out loud. _Keep talking!_

Hawkeye abruptly opened his eyes, cocking his head. "_So_...you, what? Just couldn't get enough death? Went back for more carnage?" His voice sounded harder, more sarcastic than he intended. Where did that come from? He wondered.

God, he _must_ be crazy. Or suicidal, he offered. Of all the people he could conceivably piss off right now, Margaret was _not_ the best choice.

But instead of getting angry, she merely said quietly, "I went for a walk."

He was momentarily taken aback. Hawkeye considered this. "A walk?" He repeated as if the word possessed some mysterious meaning beyond the obvious.

Margaret looked at him oddly, nodding. Noting her expression, he nervously commented, "Well, it's just that it's _now_ the middle of the night, so..." He trailed off, hoping like hell she'd finish the sentence. He didn't like this new, eerily quiet Margaret.

She shrugged again. "It was a long walk." Her voice betrayed no emotion. Hawkeye studied her face for a long moment, trying to figure out what the hell she meant.

He knew with the tiny shiver he felt gradually traveling through his body, that he _really_ didn't like this Margaret.

Hawkeye realized with a start she scared him. Margaret was assertive and intense, the strongest woman he'd ever known, someone who, through sheer power of will, made mountains tremble.

But tonight she seemed none of those things.

He knew suddenly of what this new Margaret reminded him.

Once, when Hawkeye was finishing medical school, he visited an asylum...He couldn't remember the name. Anyway, while he was there he walked by an observation room with one of those one-way windows—the kind used for watching a patient without their knowledge. He remembered the room was also sound proof, because the person inside was clearly pounding on the Plexi-glass and shrieking hysterically.

But you couldn't hear a thing on the outside.

It was more than a little unnerving. And certainly no less so tonight. On the surface Margaret seemed completely emotionless, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was someone screaming underneath.

He sighed inwardly, knowing suddenly that he'd wanted to take comfort in Margaret when he stopped in front of her tent tonight. They'd come together for similar reasons a handful of times over the past year. Tonight he'd wanted her to be tough for both of them, yet again. But now that looked impossible.

He nodded, understanding what she'd meant by _a long walk_. She was drowning too. He refused to admit what this meant.

"It's been a _long_ night," he agreed finally.

Margaret continued to stonily stare at him as if she were waiting for him to leave. He was reminded once again of the inmate beating hysterically on the plexi-glass, though outwardly Margaret remained completely motionless. He studied her, swallowing an impulse to physically shake her.

She really did look beautiful, he thought wistfully. Her skin shone unnaturally under the brilliant moon, and her eyes, magnified by its light, contrasted strikingly with the shadows sculpting the lines of her face.

He realized she was the only person he knew who managed to become _more_ attractive when she looked terrible.

Hawkeye took a deep breath. "Margaret, do you want to take a walk with _me_?" He asked quietly, surprising himself. _What the hell. It beat walking alone._

She looked at him for a moment, her eyes glittering darkly. "Yeah," she finally answered, exhaling heavily, "A few more laps around the camp can't hurt."

Hawkeye knew sadly that he feared her current state, and that she could no longer help him, but he also knew that more than anything, he didn't want to be alone anymore. Not after the dream. And even if he _was_ crazy, he could still pretend to be sane. Better start practicing now.

Margaret began to walk toward the path on the edge of the compound. He fell in step beside her easily.

They remained silent and for a long time, the only sound interrupting the stillness of the morning was the crunch of dirt beneath their feet. Hawkeye noticed suddenly his hands no longer shook. He took them out of his pockets for the first time, flexing his fingers.

"Out walking, huh?" He asked casually, breaking the silence with more confidence than he felt. His voice sounded unnatural, out of key. He cleared his throat.

Hawkeye thought for a moment she seemed startled by his voice, but if that was indeed the case, she hid it quickly.

Margaret nodded, exhaling. "Too tired to sleep." He realized she'd been doing that all night—letting out a deep breath before speaking. Like talking somehow reminded her to breathe. It was unsettling.

He shook his head, replying, "No such thing, Margaret." Hawkeye tried to grin at her. It made his face feel strained, taut.

She glanced at him seriously and seemed to consider his words. "Maybe, I just wanted to spend some time outside of a tent. Outside of the operating room," she said casually, and the note of meaninglessness in her voice scared him. He could tell she was trying very hard to maintain a steady tone, but her words came just a beat too fast, too measured, and he noticed she couldn't completely mask the tiny tremor at the end of the sentence.

Margaret was unhinging him. He'd wanted her to help him earlier, and instead, she was making things worse.

God she was scaring him.

But a moment ago, she had said something very important, something that could begin to explain things. And when he considered what she'd said, how could he argue with her words?

"Yeah," he agreed wholeheartedly, curbing an impulse to shriek hysterically when he thought about spending another minute in surgery. This must be what a nervous breakdown feels like, he noted grimly. Like something inside your head has come loose, and now you can't remember things—important things like whether you're speaking words or just thinking them, and then the blank looks people give you only confuse you more. Like the----

"You know, you never answered my question." Margaret's voice cut through his inner rant, bringing him back to the present. He could have imagined it, but she sounded more confident to him, and the tremor he'd detected earlier had disappeared.

Hawkeye immediately breathed a small sigh of relief. Maybe Margaret was coming back! He hoped so. He didn't think he could handle his own insanity and hers, too. Hawkeye felt like cheering.

She continued to stare at him expectantly. What had she asked? Something about a question?

He swallowed, replying weakly, "What question would that be?"

"What you were doing standing in front of my tent."

"Oh." Hawkeye answered. He grew silent. What the hell could he say?

She abruptly stopped walking and faced him. Hawkeye sensed her movement and turned, looking at her anxiously, a little surprised by her sudden energy.

He paused, taking a moment to scan the area around him. He thought they were standing in a clearing in the woods on the edge of camp, but he didn't recognize the terrain. He certainly couldn't see the camp anymore.

Hawkeye fought the sudden urge to run away. It would be so easy to just _not_ walk back to camp. And while he knew _he_ could most certainly do something that cowardly right now, she would never agree to it.

Margaret took a step toward him. He almost gasped out loud when he got a closer look at her face. From this distance he saw vividly how utterly exhausted she looked. She was very pale, and underneath her eyes, dark circles gleamed like garish bruises in the moonlight. Her face had grown increasingly gaunt recently, Hawkeye realized.

So had the rest of her, he noticed for the first time.

My God, what had happened to her? A better question would be, where was _I_ when this happened, he thought angrily. He continued to stare at her sadly, helplessly.

The moonlight made her face look softer, more vulnerable. Hawkeye suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to touch her cheek.

"Listen, is something wrong?" Margaret asked, abruptly ending his reverie, crossing her arms. She was trying to be stern, emotionless—Hawkeye saw a flash of the former Major for a brief moment. But the glassy sheen of her eyes betrayed her, and she only succeeded in sounding a little frantic. He couldn't handle this. It was too tragic. Hawkeye felt for a moment as if he might cry.

Instead, he let out a short laugh, retorting, "You mean other than everything?" He'd meant to seem flippant, cavalier, even.

_Not_ desperate.

She didn't return the laugh and for a moment Hawkeye thought he saw a glimmer of intense sadness flash across her eyes. Then it was gone, leaving him wondering whether he'd imagined it. Margaret continued looking at him as if she wanted to speak—either that or burst into tears. He couldn't decipher which was which anymore.

He glanced at her again searching for...something. He didn't know what, exactly. Not finding it, Hawkeye turned away to stare at the dark horizon.

Maybe he _should_ tell her? Tell her about the nightmares, and the possibility of his impending insanity. It might help, he argued. But then, why did he suddenly feel deeply afraid at the thought? Why was this so hard? What did he see in her face that made him so afraid? More afraid.

Hawkeye discovered the reason why he hadn't wanted to tell her about the dreams earlier had morphed into something else. Before tonight, he just didn't want to show her weakness. She had always been tough—tougher than he was, anyway. Not taking into account her unnerving behavior tonight, Margaret usually kept her fears and her pain to herself. He was much louder.

And, normally that didn't bother him, but with this...it was just so damn pathetic. Nightmares? Was he _seven_?

But now, he realized, it looked as if even Margaret was losing the battle with this place, this war. He couldn't tell her. How could he hope to win if she couldn't? He was barely making headway climbing uphill and she seemed to be falling just as quickly. And _that_ was why he couldn't tell her. Not now. He couldn't bear the thought, closing his eyes against its implications.

Again the nightmare flooded over him, picking up where the earlier vision had left off. It couldn't be stopped now, and the images came in increasing sharpness.

_The hedges stretched on for miles. It seemed suddenly that they'd grown to such a monstrous height as to almost entirely blot out the sun. Abruptly, he burst through a gap in the row, squinting in the full light of morning. _

He heard Margaret's voice calling him. She sounded far away.

_He stood on green grass at the foot of a hill. Hawkeye couldn't explain it, but he knew without doubt that he would find what he searched for at its top. What _was_ he searching for, though?_ You know_, a voice said. _Do I? _He wondered. He began to climb. The sun shined brightly on his face, and he felt the first drops of moisture form between his eyes. He climbed as quickly as he could, but the hill seemed to continue on without end. Hawkeye began to despair, feeling his body tire. He sat frustrated on the ground for a moment, willing his legs to move. Why was this so hard? He felt a surge of anger at himself and his weakness, and at the impossible hill stretching on in front of him. Rising angrily to stand, he screamed at the hill, not understanding how he could possibly climb something so high. He discovered suddenly the ground felt wet under his feet. Looking down, Hawkeye realized with horror he was walking in blood. It was everywhere. A sea of blood swallowing his ankles. He slipped, falling to his knees. When he wiped the sweat from his eyes his hand left a bloody smear across his face. He had to get out of this. Hawkeye began to crawl up the hill. He was sobbing now, sinking into the gore. _

A blinding pain tore through this image, and when he jerkily opened his eyes he stared into Margaret's frightened face.

She had slapped him, he realized, shocked.

Hawkeye noticed dully he was on the ground. On his knees. How appropriate. Margaret crouched next to him, staring in horror, and holding him tightly by the shoulders. He gasped, trying to catch his breath, and clumsily grasped her arms, gratefully feeling the warmth of her skin infuse his ice-cold body.

Hawkeye leaned forward, burying his head in her shoulder, trying to stop the tears stinging his eyelids. But, the moment his eyes closed a barrage of images overtook him once again with jolting clarity. He couldn't stop the dream from overtaking his consciousness, not anymore.

_He stood on top of the hill. He'd made it, he thought a little surprised. He noticed with relief the blood had disappeared. When Hawkeye finally threw his exhausted body down upon the grass to catch his breath, he noticed with trepidation a crowd of tall figures standing a distance away. _

_As he moved closer, he realized he knew these people. They were his friends. People he'd known in med school, old friends from Maine, teachers he'd had in junior high. _

_And then Hawkeye saw Tommy Gillis. He gasped, nearly sprinting toward his friend. "Tommy! You're alive!" He joyfully put his arms around the man, tears forming in his eyes. Hawkeye pulled back to study him in disbelief, trying to talk through the thick lump of emotion in his throat, "How are you here? I can't believe this! I thought you were dead! I thought, I mean, I watched you die!" Tommy smiled warmly, grasping Hawkeye's shoulders with both hands affectionately before slowly moving away. Hawkeye tried to follow into the crowd, calling after his friend. But Tommy was gone. _

He gasped awake once more. Hawkeye pulled violently away from Margaret and cried into his hands. Tommy had left him _again_. The memory of his friend's death continued to cut him deeply, though it was something he rarely spoke about to anyone. Even after all the time that had passed since he'd watched his friend's heart stop beating, Hawkeye could never completely dismiss the thought that he had failed him, that through some fault of his he'd _let_ Tommy die. And now, it threatened to completely unravel him.

_Why was this happening?_ He wasn't sure if he was talking out loud or in his head anymore.

He pressed his eyes into his hands, willing with every clenched muscle in his body against the return of the dream. He rocked back and forth slowly. The ground began to feel harder beneath him, more reassuring.

Hawkeye looked suddenly at Margaret. She sat a few feet away, an unreadable expression on her face. Something changed, though, when he fiercely locked his eyes with hers, and the blankness fell away, leaving a look of complete despair. When she stared helplessly back at him, he saw clearly how fractured she truly was.

As swiftly as he was falling downward, Margaret knew she couldn't help him, just as he knew it.

Hawkeye resented her for that. He felt it deeply in this moment, coursing through the hard muscles in his arms, his clenched hands, the rapid beating of his heart.

He resented her with everything inside him for sitting there and watching powerlessly. He resented her for being _here_ in Korea, in this terrible place where he could never be happy. He wanted to hate everything about the war and he couldn't. Because _she_ was there. And he hated her for it. He hated her for keeping him from forgetting everything about it when he left. He couldn't leave this war and never think about it again, now. Because he couldn't forget her. No matter how much he wanted to. And he _hated_ that. He hated it. He would never be right, or healthy, or even ok. And neither would she. She could have been the one to pull him back, and he resented _her_ for failing to overcome whatever it was that had already destroyed him.

And the worst part about all of this was, when Hawkeye looked into her eyes he knew _she_ resented him right back. Because he'd somehow dragged her down with him. It was as if his failure to be okay had cemented her own. Funny how twisted his world was. Like maybe, if when she'd run into him tonight he hadn't been a mess she might've been alright too.

But he wasn't. He was falling fast and now, taking her with him. He felt guilty, and afraid, and tired. And he couldn't look at her anymore.

He drew a shuddering breath, half-expecting her to run away. Run away and leave me, he glared at her.

_Leave me alone! _

He realized with horror he'd just pronounced those words aloud, and knew immediately he didn't mean it. He didn't want to be alone. God, he didn't mean it.

Without warning, Margaret closed the space between them, clasping his face violently in her hands, crushing his mouth to hers. He inhaled sharply into her mouth, experiencing a mixture of surprise and intense relief. Hawkeye reacted quickly, fiercely pulling her down on top of him, feeling the full weight of her body press against him. Oh God, he moaned, though whether it was aloud or in his head he didn't know. He didn't care. Hawkeye forcefully clutched her closer to him, kissing Margaret harder and harder until it made him dizzy and the air around them thrummed in his ears.

He felt a familiar possessiveness in the way he grasped her body—as if somehow she was his in this moment. He couldn't control anything happening around them, but right now he could _own_ her pleasure, the way she shivered in his arms, the softness of her flesh beneath his fingers. This thought impressed a new urgency onto his movements. And she met him fervently back. There was so much desperation, it was almost intoxicating. Every charged move they made was increasingly frantic, convulsive, something that had gone beyond their control. The extent to which they needed this was tragic. He knew it.

This was _not_ a solution. Hawkeye felt a brief pang of guilt.

If he thought anything else, however, its memory was swiftly deteriorating with every brush of her hips on his.

He fought the need, the frenzied desire for a moment. He thought they should stop. He made a conscious decision to stop.

Then Margaret's hands went lower and blinding light flashed in front of his eyelids. Hawkeye decided stopping would have to wait until he could form words again. Margaret's hair spilled down around them. His eyes rolled back in his head.

Hawkeye couldn't halt the instantaneous onslaught of images flashing in his mind. But he also didn't care anymore. When Margaret frantically pulled his shirt over his head, then took off her own, his eyes no longer saw anything beyond the bright light bursting in increasing frequency in front of them. The contrasting warmth of her skin against his cool body was exquisite.

God, it was amazing to feel something again, _anything_ replacing the aching, gnawing sensation that consumed him almost all the time now. The dream grew more distant with each passing moment, and was finally only a tiny, dulled knot in his belly. Every ragged breath he drew brought him closer to some kind of salvation, and he gladly gave in to the addictive sensations charging through his body without another thought.

Some time later, they lay spent, motionless on the ground. Hawkeye couldn't stop himself from falling asleep.

_Hawkeye dejectedly continued to search for Tommy, but instead caught sight of another familiar face. But why was he with these people? This was different. He walked up to his father quickly, worried that he, too, would run away. "Dad?" Hawkeye inquired hopefully. Hawkeye threw his arms around him, trying to hold him as tightly as possible. His father nodded, gently placing a hand on his son's head. Hawkeye wanted to ask him a million questions, but before he could respond his father pulled away and was lost in the crowd. Hawkeye began to feel intensely that there was something wrong. Frustrated, he pushed angrily through the crowd. Suddenly, the throng of people parted, revealing a smaller group gathered a short distance away. _

Some thing was wrong. _This thought came from nowhere. It had become a silent chant, running over and over through his mind. _So wrong.

_This was the part of the dream that always abruptly stopped without actually ending, he remembered with startling clarity. He saw his friends from Korea, and when they left, there was only himself and the hooded figure standing at the grave. _

_But, he knew who it was now._

_It was Margaret. She pulled the hood from her face. Hawkeye inhaled sharply, noticing how vividly her eyes shone through the gray fog hugging the world around them. She looked lovely. Margaret held his gaze, staring intensely at him. She stepped toward him, leaning to speak in his ear. Hawkeye froze when he heard her words. He went cold, gaping at Margaret in horror. She kissed him calmly on the forehead._

Everyone dies alone.

_She pointed at the coffin. Hawkeye stood motionless, stunned, terrified by the words she'd just uttered, their resonance echoing painfully in his ears. But he knew she was right. _

_He had to go on. _

_With a last, pleading glance at Margaret's unmoving form he walked the final steps to stand beside the grave. In spite of everything he'd seen thus far, every horror he'd experienced, nothing could have prepared him for what was in the casket. For who was in the casket. _

_He _expected_ to look at the peaceful form of his mother. He knew he had to say good-bye to her, he'd come to say good-bye. _Tell your mother you love her, son. Say goodbye.

_But this time, the scene had changed. The shock he initially felt turned to terror when he realized whose grave this was. _

_This time he saw himself. _

Everyone dies alone._ The words echoed in his ears. He heard someone screaming. They sounded far away._

_He realized it was him._

_That was his body in the coffin, now slowly lowering into the ground. The lid slammed shut, and he was inside. _I'm alive!_ He screamed over and over. But no one heard him, because he was utterly alone. _

_Everyone had left him here. And the walls closed in around him._

_Everyone dies alone._

Hawkeye painfully opened his eyes, and remained completely motionless. He felt numb. He choked back the tears suddenly burning his throat. _No_. He was _not_ going to cry. Not anymore. The dream had finished.

The sun had begun to creep over the horizon, though Hawkeye still felt cold deeply within his body. But Margaret was warm. The calming warmth of her skin seeped into his own, reminding him he was awake. It reminded him he was alive. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back on the ground. He feared what the dream meant, what it was telling him. But he discovered he felt a little lighter, too. Margaret's hair brushed his face when the wind blew.

At some point earlier this morning he'd put his shirt on, he realized, feeling the familiar material move slightly in the breeze. The grass was soft beneath him.

He remembered getting dressed again now, glancing down at Margaret's sleeping form. And, before falling into a fitful sleep, he'd thrown his jacket over both of them. Now, keeping the jacket in place, he cradled her against his chest, slowly rising to his feet. She barely moved.

Standing there, holding Margaret in his arms, he knew they had to go back. He didn't feel dread, just a dull, throbbing resolution. The sun was coming up and they had to go back.

Hawkeye began to steadily make his way to camp. He felt calmer now, oddly peaceful, as if the morning's stillness had stamped his own features with its characteristics. The sky was a pale pink color, resembling a newly formed scar. A scar wide enough to mark the wounds of Korea, he reflected as he walked. Though still not big enough to cover his own.

Hawkeye knew with all the confidence he could muster he'd seen the dream through to its conclusion, and felt without doubt that it was over. Though its memory haunted him still, it was over. And that was something.

Margaret was frighteningly light in his arms. This worried him. As he carried her, he felt keenly how thin she'd become. It hurt to think about, but he didn't know what to do for her, so he just kept trudging on. He walked on the path deep in thought, trying not to feel the bones in her back. What was this thing, this darkness, this omnipresent shadow that weighted them down and carved deep lines around their eyes? A pain so expansive it swallowed even Margaret's staunch militarism. As he walked, he scanned the foliage around them, checking for snipers. But there weren't any. They were alone.

Hawkeye made good time getting back to camp, arriving just as the first few pale rays of sunshine glimmered over the distant mountains. His pace increased when he approached the housing area, more out of habit than an actual fear of someone discovering them.

He shifted Margaret in his arms to open the door of her tent and she mumbled something into his throat. He stopped to stroke her hair a moment before entering. She buried her face in his collarbone, clinging to his chest more tightly and murmuring again into his neck. He froze, hearing what she'd said. _Hawkeye, don't cry_.

Hawkeye felt like crying.

He pushed the door open, and gently lowered her sleeping form onto her cot, pulling the blanket up and tucking it in around her. He realized his jacket was still underneath her. Actually, he remembered, it wasn't even his coat. He didn't know whose it was! But he didn't want to take the chance he might wake her, and let it remain where it was. Oh well, whoever owned it could have his. Hawkeye sat on the edge of the cot, smoothing her hair and waiting to make sure she wasn't going to wake up.

He stared at her for a long time.

Margaret seemed more peaceful now, he noticed, the former darkness in her face evident only in the shadow lingering over her eyes. This made him feel better, like maybe he wasn't going insane, just a little lost. Like he might be ok. He once again felt the odd impression that he was somehow lighter.

Here in this place, not a day went by that Hawkeye didn't know that he was dying. The war made sure of that—that he be constantly reminded of his own, very frail mortality. Here, Hawkeye knew, he was dying very _slowly_, a little at a time.

But now, he thought, perhaps, it didn't matter.

And when Hawkeye turned to go with renewed resolve, he felt the beginning of something. Something he hadn't felt in a long time.

Maybe...there was hope.

Maybe not for him. No, Hawkeye didn't honestly know if he could bring himself back. Not anymore.

But he wouldn't let that happen to her.

_Everyone dies alone_, she'd told him in the dream. Very well. That might be _his_ fate. But _not_ for her.

And who knows, he thought, maybe, somehow, saving her might in the process save him, too.


	2. Intervolometer

A/N: So I wanted to continue Mad World, but I _didn't_ want to just add chapters to it. Don't ask me why, I think it was something to do with the way it ended. However, I couldn't come up with a story that merited an actual sequel, so alas, that's what I ended up doing anyway. At any rate, the action in this chapter occurs a few days later.

Meanwhile, I've also decided that this story doesn't really belong with the fics in my other collection. In fact, I don't even think they belong in the same time frame. I feel like Mad World should take place later in the TV show, maybe nearer the end—closer to when Hawkeye _really_ goes crazy for a while. The downside of this is that I haven't actually seen those episodes (due entirely to the fact that the schmucks at FOX aren't even releasing the seventh season DVD's until December).

I'm a recent MASH fan, as in I just started watching this summer, and I am completely dependent on the DVD sets now that the show isn't on FX anymore. So I guess I'll just have to hope that my characterizations are still remotely accurate. Ok, sorry for the long intro, here you go.

Chapter 2 - Intervolometer

Hawkeye trudged into Post-op with a cup of coffee in his hand. He was late again, but he didn't give a damn, and he hoped whomever he got stuck working with didn't either.

It wasn't really that he minded the late-night shift, in fact, more recently, he'd begun to look forward to it. It was something to do. Something that didn't involve sleeping. And although he had nightmares less and less these days, even the _idea_ of closing his eyes was still terrifying to consider. _To sleep, perchance to dream, _Hawkeye quoted. _Ay, there's the rub_.

That guy wasn't kidding, he thought wryly, feeling a simultaneous rush of relief. His sense of humor occasionally made appearances again these days. He thought it was probably a good sign. Like he was thawing out a little.

He didn't know quite what had changed, but he'd begun to think he might yet see the end of this war.

Then he saw Margaret.

He froze mid-step, almost dropping his coffee cup. He wondered why'd he failed to remember she was going to be here tonight. He hadn't actually talked to her since their...since their _what_, he wondered. Our _walk_, Hawkeye finished, grimacing. Despite the fact that they often worked together after midnight, had done so innumerable times in the past, Hawkeye felt uncomfortable seeing her alone right now.

After that night.

Never before had talking to Margaret seemed so difficult. And that was saying something.

He suddenly wished there was something stronger than coffee in the cup.

After everything that happened—mostly to him—that night, he didn't know what to say. He knew he should apologize. But for what? Hawkeye couldn't bring himself to say. She made him feel guilty, and he hated it.

Margaret sat listening to the heartbeat of a patient, facing away from where he stood across the room. The only patient, he noted dully. Well, that was certainly something. The influx of wounded soldiers had, for the time being, subsided. Through some variety of divine intercession, Hawkeye was sure.

He ran a tired hand through his hair. Not sleeping had really begun to take its toll. At least he'd stopped saying things in his head out loud, though. That was big. He might've been insane with that one. But, he amended with relief, it had tapered off too.

To hell with it, he thought finally, setting his cup down on a cabinet and walking slowly to where Margaret sat.

"You're late," she noted evenly without turning around. Her voice sounded brittle, hollow. The sound resonated strangely in the nearly empty room.

She wrote something on the patient's chart. He stood motionless, just behind her, a little off-balance.

"Yeah. Sorry." Hawkeye muttered, carefully moving close enough to look over her shoulder at what she'd written.

He stuffed his hands heavily into the pockets of his coat, not failing to note this had become a strange habit lately. Some kind of nervous tick, he guessed. Comes with being crazy.

He continued to scan the chart, a detail catching his eye.

"Do you want me to tell you what it says?" She asked interrupting his thoughts, again with that same measured evenness. Like a metronome marking time.

Despite his newfound resolve, she was doing it once more. Unnerving him.

Margaret spoke again before he could form an answer. "This man had major chest damage. Severe enough that fluid accumulated in the pericardium and BJ had to perform an impromptu Pericardium Tap." She fell silent, watching his reaction expectantly.

He stared at the man feeling violently ill. Hawkeye knew with chilly dread what this meant. If this man didn't stabilize in the next couple of hours, then his heart would never recover. And what's worse, he realized with increasing hysteria, is that they couldn't even replenish any blood until his bleeding was controlled. Hawkeye felt dread rise in his throat.

This kid wasn't going to make it through the night.

For Christ's sake. Feeling the first, familiar stirrings of panic churning in his belly, Hawkeye inhaled deeply, fighting the urge to run back out the door he'd just entered.

Shaking his head slowly, he realized he didn't know if he could handle that, he really didn't. He closed his eyes, wishing himself somewhere else. _Wait_, he ordered, there's still a chance for this kid! _he could be okay!_ He added quickly, desperately.

Hawkeye remembered a time when he would not have merely accepted this poor soldier's death sentence, but fought it with everything in him. He didn't think he could muster that kind of determination right now. Maybe not ever again.

When Hawkeye opened his eyes he noticed he hadn't moved. _Hell._

He realized suddenly Margaret had yet to actually look at him. She continued writing furiously on the chart. He tentatively reached out to touch her shoulder. It felt frail, breakable, beneath his hand, but at the same time, there was also an odd tension stirring under his fingertips. Like she'd been clenching, holding tight the muscles there. Margaret violently dotted an 'i,' and taut flesh moved beneath the smoothness of her cotton shirt.

She whirled to glare at him. "Do you know what this _means_?" She asked, with a fierce wave of her pen.

Hawkeye nodded slowly, sadly. He knew. And he couldn't change it.

For the first time that night, Margaret met his gaze. He felt a sharp, piercing pain, staring at her, seeing the depth of her frustration. He hadn't been able to rally that sort of anger in a long time. Her eyes gleamed a strange, dark shade of blue that sliced icily through shadows carving the lines of her face.

She looked so tired, he noted sadly. _Too tired to sleep_, she'd said to him, and he was beginning to understand what she meant—knew the sensation all too well, himself. It was the kind of tired that lodged itself right behind your eyes, a constant pressure making your face feel tight, drawn.

Hawkeye wearily sat down on the empty bed adjacent to Margaret's chair. He didn't know what to say. How could he comfort her? How could he tell her everything would be fine, they'd get this man through the night, no one dies on my watch? How could he say those things to her when he couldn't even tell them to himself?

The resolution he'd felt surge through him leaving Margaret's tent the other night seemed hollow now—a phantom presence in the back of his mind, but nothing solid he could pull down and grasp tonight.

Without thinking, Hawkeye reached out to where Margaret's hand lay clenched on her leg. He gently turned it over, unfolding her fingers, one by one, recalling absentmindedly a nursery rhyme from long ago, _this little piggy_... No, he corrected, that was for toes.

Margaret stared down at their hands, the anger momentarily draining from her features. When she spoke, he could barely hear her whisper, "I'm sorry."

Hawkeye looked sharply at her face, his brow furrowed. "Margaret," he began quietly, not sure how to go on. He glanced down again, studying the thin, delicate lines of her fingers. Her hand was soft and warm against the coolness of his own.

Margaret suddenly stared intensely at him. Hawkeye felt her eyes watching him and looked up.

"What's wrong with you?" She asked simply, her eyes glittering intensely. "What happened that night?"

Hawkeye felt a violent urge to pull away from her, but she grasped his hand, keeping him in place. He sighed, staring into space.

"I..." He finally said, his voice faltering. "I don't know," he finished quietly, feeling weary.

She continued to stare at him silently with a now familiar expression of helplessness on her face. She seemed to be waiting for him to continue.

He began to grow extremely uncomfortable under her gaze. He had no idea what to say to her, how to explain. He didn't know what she wanted from him, and he was too exhausted to articulate any of this to her. Especially pending the almost definite death of the soldier in front of them. Besides, _he_ wasn't the one whose eyes were framed in dark angles. Nor did _his_ skin match the color of his lab coat.

Without warning, he felt an overpowering surge of anger. Anger at _her_. Hawkeye locked his eyes on hers forcefully.

"Well, what the hell's wrong with _you_, Margaret? You're not exactly a _picture_ of health these days," he finally snapped. His voice rang out mean, sarcastic—a sharpness he instantly regretted as his words resonated harshly in the empty room. He didn't know why he'd said that, why he'd wanted to hurt her suddenly.

Margaret abruptly let go of his hand, leaning backward in the chair, and crossing her arms defensively. The shadows under her eyes seemed to momentarily consume her features.

Her face was a darkened mask when she told him shortly, "I'm _fine_."

Hawkeye would've rolled his eyes if it hadn't been so tragic. Instead he just stared at her silently, feeling exhausted. He remembered how he'd vowed mere days ago to try and _save_ her—whatever the hell that meant. But he knew deeply, even through his own fractured, muddled perception, that you can't save someone who won't _let_ themselves be saved.

Hawkeye should have foreseen this—this familiar scenario of theirs. It was a dance they'd performed time after time. He wouldn't give, and she wouldn't give, and noone was making it out alive. He almost laughed out loud at how close he'd been to climbing up from the hole in which he was trapped. He should've known. He should've realized the complete meaninlessness in such a thought. He rubbed his eyes with his hands.

Margaret met his gaze for a moment through the eerie dark of her eyes. There were no longer any traces of anger in the way she watched him, just something he couldn't quite name. Desolation, maybe? It looked to him like she hadn't slept in days, and from this distance the dark circles under eyes shined unnaturally under the florescent lights. He felt thick guilt creep into the back of his throat.

He couldn't handle it. Once more he broke their held stare, turning to the motionless form of the soldier on the adjoining bed. "So what's his condition, right now?" He asked abruptly, gesturing towards the wounded man. Hawkeye momentarily felt a little embarrassed it had taken him so long to ask. Was he even a doctor anymore? An excellent question, he thought darkly. Some part of what was left of the doctor inside reminded him that this man needed to be checked every ten minutes for any change—for better or worse. Well, at least something registered, he thought dully.

Margaret let her gaze linger on his face a moment longer, studying him with her strange eyes—those eyes that both attracted and unnerved him so much it was maddening. He pretended not to notice.

"Well, his blood pressure isn't particularly encouraging, but it hasn't dropped at all, either. So, in a manner of speaking, his condition is stable," she finally answered. _For now, anyway_. She hadn't said that last part aloud, but he knew it concluded the thought. He nodded.

They sat in silence, staring at the patient. Hawkeye marveled inwardly that this soldier, who he didn't know—would never know—had the power to completely unfasten all the meticulous work he'd done in the last few days toward regaining a semblance of normality.

_Come on buddy, give us a break. _He silently implored God, and this soldier, and whoever else was listening.

He noticed Margaret looking at him oddly, and wondered if he had, in fact, implored louder than he thought.

Hawkeye sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "I've been doing that a lot lately—saying what I'm thinking out loud without realizing it." He confessed, shaking his head.

He started. Had he just told her that? Admitting it now felt like admitting to his own insanity. He suddenly wished he could make it a joke. But he couldn't. It wasn't. Hawkeye half-expected her to laugh, though. He glanced at her sideways, trying to gauge her reaction.

Margaret stared at him thoughtfully, intently. She knit her eyebrows together. "I know," She answered coolly, after a moment.

He looked up sharply. "What?"

Margaret shot him a look. "I know that you've been doing that," she supplied. She cocked her head. "It's strange. Strange even for you." Her voice sounded odd—she sounded odd, as if her voice had been pumped full of air. He waited for her to show amusement at that last jibe. She merely continued to study him.

Hawkeye was aghast. But before he could respond, she asked in that same strange tone, "Why do you do it?" He stared at her, swallowing heavily, unsure of how to answer.

"I don't know," he finally replied, feeling stricken. "Because of everything, I suppose." Realizing that sounded hackneyed, he added quickly, "And probably, really, nothing." Hawkeye didn't know if that made sense, but Margaret nodded knowingly.

"It's this place, I think. Korea and the war, and this camp." She said quietly, as if to herself. "It gets in your skin, in your eyes, something in the air that doesn't wash out, or go away..." Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. Margaret looked at him, frowning uncomfortably. "It makes you do things. Things you wouldn't normally do." Her words came haltingly, jerkily. It was very uncharacteristic of her.

Hawkeye studied her carefully, searching her face. The soldier moaned a little, shifting on the cot beside them. They both tensed, waiting. The patient grew still again, and Margaret exhaled heavily beside him. Hawkeye slowly reached for the kid's wrist, feeling for his pulse.

His hand still holding the wounded man's wrist, Hawkeye turned to her. "Margaret, have you been getting enough sleep lately?" He asked quietly. He motioned toward the blood pressure pump at her side.

She handed it to him without meeting his eyes. He dutifully wrapped the cuff around the soldier's arm and began to pump the sphygmometer, still gazing at her intently. She shrugged.

"I suppose." Margaret answered casually. He cocked an eyebrow. Surprisingly, he found her response a little reassuring. If Margaret could still manage that sort of dodge, then maybe he could, too.

Though, he'd never really fallen for anything like that from her. He found it oddly comforting that she could never successfully lie to him, _especially_ not when he read the truth so clearly in her every tired movement—like now. Hawkeye released the pump, reading the pressure gauge, and then unfolding the rubber cuff.

"Margaret, you _suppose_?" He prompted, tossing aside the sphygmometer and, reaching over to gently take the clipboard from her grasp. Hawkeye congratulated himself on the even pitch of his last sentence. He began to write on the chart, continuing in a similarly careful, flippant tone, "Maybe you should ask the dark circles under your eyes and then get back to me." He didn't look up. Hawkeye realized he was afraid to.

"What do you want me to say?" She snapped, surprising him. "That I don't sleep anymore? That I just _walk_ _around_ all night long? That's what you wanted me to admit, right? That I go on impossibly long walks until I can't see the tents of this camp anymore, and try to pretend like I don't have to go back when the sun rises?" She stopped, as abruptly as she'd begun. Margaret stared at the floor darkly. Hawkeye noticed her hands intermittently clenching and unclenching. He didn't know how to react.

Hawkeye closed his eyes, wishing he could find words.

"Look, Margaret, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—." He started to say, but was cut off by the low moan of the wounded soldier.

Once more they grew completely still, waiting. It seemed to him an eternity passed in the moments following, as if everything hinged on what happened next. When the soldier remained motionless, it was Hawkeye's turn to exhale with relief.

"This is unbearable." He said, to noone in particular.

"It really, really is." Margaret agreed in a similarly resigned tone.

He looked at her thoughtfully. He felt calmer now, and was beginning to think that this soldier might yet make it. If they could just get him through the night, then he would be out of the woods. Hawkeye couldn't help feeling that if this man lived, then he might also find a way to. Margaret seemed to be breathing a little easier beside him, as well.

Something occurred to him. "Margaret, what's the worst part about this place?" He asked suddenly, surprising himself. It was an interesting question. There were so many terrible details, maybe somehow understanding the nastiest of it could explain his psychosis. She raised her eyebrows at him. He shrugged.

"It's the place itself, I think, that gets to me." She answered slowly, contemplatively.

"Not a fan of green?" He prompted, trying to grin at her. Hawkeye only succeeded in producing a thin smile that felt more tired than anything. She didn't seem to notice, though, and smiled back at him in a way that perfectly mirrored his own expression. He shuddered involuntarily.

"Not particularly, no." She paused, frowning slightly before adding more quietly, "It's just that this place never changes. When I was a kid, we never lived in one place more than eighteen months, and I've been _here_ for nearly _three_ years!"

He grimaced at her. "Leave it the Army to give you a complex." He said lightly. She nodded, a strange sort of half-smile still on her face.

"What about you?" She asked, looking at him intently. He tried not to wince when her eyes gleamed darkly under the florescent lights. Hawkeye considered her for a moment.

"Wait. Margaret, I'd like to explore this a bit more." She stared at him blankly.

He cocked his head at her. "So let me make sure I understand this. You moved around so much when you were a kid that now you don't feel comfortable in one place for more than two years?" He asked with an indiscriminate wave of his hand.

"I think it's been ten minutes." She answered, ignoring the question and grabbing the blood pressure pump from where he'd set it on the opposite bed. Hawkeye wondered what time it was momentarily, then tried to add the number of times they'd taken his blood pressure.

She began taking the man's blood pressure. He stopped trying to multiply when she spoke again.

"Well," she said, watching the pump, "I guess I just got used to it. And now, I don't know if I'll ever feel comfortable staying somewhere indefinitely." Hawkeye found the listlessness of her tone more than a little sad.

"That's going to be a real problem after the war when we get married and live in Maine for the rest of our lives." She cocked an eyebrow, still watching the pressure gauge. He was certain he saw a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, though. Encouraged he continued. "Although, I suppose when the first few kids are old enough, we can probably travel or something."

Margaret shook her head, unVelcroing the cuff and taking the clipboard out of his hands. She began writing. "The first few kids?" She asked with mock incredulity. "How many are we having?" She continued lightly, though still not looking at him.

"Eleven." He felt a genuine smile form on his lips—the first in an interminable amount of time.

She made a strange noise that could've been interpreted as coughing, choking, or laughing. Possibly all three, now that he considered it. Glancing at him with raised eyebrows, Margaret finally nodded, blinking rapidly at the clipboard. He was enjoying this.

"You think that's enough? Maybe a few more?" Hawkeye was grinning now, waiting to see what she'd do.

"Hawkeye," she said sharply, and stopped writing abruptly. She gazed at him intensely. "What happened the other night?"

He felt the emotion drain slowly from his features. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. Then suddenly, he looked at her, a strange smile twisting his features.

"I'm _fine_," he tried to sneer, though he only succeeded in sounding exhausted. He did however, mimic perfectly her own answer earlier. Why was it so important that she figure him out all of a sudden? All that he wanted was one little corner at the back of his mind that he could keep separate. The dreams, this place, everything, shoved into it, and then he could function, he could operate. But now, this was in danger. He couldn't understand why Margaret insisted on sending out her battalions to blow all this apart. He was barely surviving as it was, if the careful way in which he interacted with his world was threatened...

And that was why he had to keep it from her. He'd grip and she'd grip, and faster they'd slide, sliding and spilling and what could he do? What could he do then?

"Don't we get to be happy, Margaret?" He asked suddenly, in a manic tone he knew only Korea could produce. "At some point down the line, don't we get to relax? Don't we get to take a deep breath?" Hawkeye stood up and walked indiscriminately around the edge of the bed. He rubbed his eyes, looking at her for the first time since his outburst. She had started taking the soldier's blood pressure again. He wondered once more what time it was, no longer able to recall how many ten minute intervals they'd been sitting here for. Hawkeye leaned his arms on top of the metal bed frame. "How is he?" He asked, resting his head on his arms.

Margaret looked at him for a long time. "116 over 60." She said simply. She smiled. Hawkeye sighed heavily, feeling an overpowering surge of relief. This damn kid was going to live. He had to stifle and urge to cheer.

Hawkeye strode back to the bed opposite her chair, sitting down and putting his hand on her arm. "Let's get drunk." He said seriously, his hand clenching her arm urgently.

She stared at him with an intensity that made him want to look away. But she looked away first. He couldn't figure out what had frightened him in her gaze. Maybe it was because he recognized something there, some kind of need that he could identify because he felt it, too.

"Noone will relieve us until six." Margaret sounded far away. He furrowed his brow. He hadn't thought of that.

"Well, what time is it now?" He asked impatiently. Hawkeye knew that now this soldier was out of the woods he could drink himself into oblivion and not feel guilty. Sometimes he worried drinking was a problem, but he'd gained too much momentum to stop now.

He suddenly wondered if they were alcoholics. The word had an odd metallic sound in his head, something clinical and hard. He shied away from the thought. Besides, if they _were_, then it wouldn't matter anyway. If they actually made it through this war.

"0500." Margaret answered, glancing at her watch. He looked at her blankly.

"It's five." She supplied evenly, still watching him with her dark eyes which now seemed to gleam a little brighter in the unnatural light of the post-op ward.

"Fine." He said, not trying to mask his relief. "That's fine. We drink then. Heavily." She nodded.

He nodded too. "Good," he said more to himself, than anyone. "What a night." He breathed. She nodded again. He looked at her.

"I know your father told me to have you home by midnight, but I was having such a great time on this date." His voice sounded strange in his ears. He was so glad to not have to face blatant death tonight that he was having trouble controlling the manic hysteria hovering above his eyes.

She looked at him, exhaling heavily. "Good." She said, smiling.

He smiled crookedly back at her. "Good," he repeated.

End

A/N: Okay, so I don't know how finished or polished this is. The truth is, I ran out of time before I have to go back to school, so, for better or for worse—and mostly for worse I'd say, this is what I have right now. I can say with certainty there will be one more chapter to this story. I mean, I do at least need to give Hawk some kind of closure with the whole dream shtick. Also, I refuse to pass up an opportunity to write them drunk. Thanks.


	3. The Dreams in Which I'm Dying

Mad World

Chapter 3 – The Dreams in Which I'm Dying

By: OneSongKatie

Hawkeye was lying halfway, dangling his feet over the edge and staring morosely at the ceiling of Margaret's tent. He blinked, noting with muddled interest the blurred spots at the fringes of his vision.

He leaned his head back against the wall of the tent and tried to focus his eyes. When that seemed finally impossible, he gave up and sat motionless, content to merely watch the vaguely outlined objects surrounding him in the gloom.

It was dark, though he could just make out odd shadow shapes shifting in between the beams.

He was drunk.

Hawkeye could feel the thickness of the alcohol dutifully trudging through his veins. Slowly, ever so slowly erasing his consciousness and replacing it with a viscous fog of muted edges in dark and light.

How drunk? Drunk enough to have forgotten what he'd been saying a moment ago, he supplied. He had a vague notion it was about something important. Or did he? Had he even been talking? Maybe it was a dream. But then again, his dreams had been of a slightly more threatening breed lately, so that probably wasn't it.

Talking and thinking and hallucinating all began to resonate the same way inside his head and Hawkeye couldn't remember anymore.

He closed his eyes, trying to scratch through the haze in his mind long enough to have a clear notion of what had occurred this night.

They'd walked back to his tent after someone came to Post-Op to replace them. Who it was he couldn't say. Just some faceless person—their features an impressionist blob of line and color.

How strange, he marveled, that these last months had begun to resemble an oil painting in his head, in which the figures and images now ran together in blurry stripes. The outline was there, the form, the structure, but no identifiable content.

The world around him was gradually turning gray in his mind. The thought ought to have terrified him. Mostly he felt numb. Which was actually an improvement, he decided bemusedly, on deathly afraid and miserable.

Anyway, Hawkeye thought, that's when they'd started drinking. He couldn't really recall now any other details. It didn't matter in any case.

He didn't know why, but he'd felt then it was something of a festive occasion. No one had died in the hours they'd sat in Post-Op! Cheers.

But then somehow they'd ended up here. He and she had. Margaret. It was odd. By all rights, he ought to be sprawled on his cot at this moment, trying to sleep before the dread whirring of chopper blades returned. No, wait, Hawkeye corrected. That was wrong.

Sleep was bad. He was avoiding sleep.

Sleep meant only fear and death, and dreams far worse than any war-torn reality—even this one.

But it was hard to recall any of that now. The oil painting business.

When Hawkeye pondered the merits of sleeping, he liked to consider it a habit he'd kicked. It somehow seemed less maudlin that way. And damn clever too, he mused, smiling crookedly to himself. Mostly, thinking of sleep in clinical terms made him feel better about the fear.

Fear of what, exactly? He paused, running his tongue over the edges of his teeth, recognizing the buzzing sensation that only accompanies extreme inebriation.

Where to begin? _Fear of nightmares, fear of waking up and still being in Korea, fear of not waking up at _all_, fear of…_but his thoughts tapered off.

And now he was here, with her.

Surely, there was a crack in there somehow about how things must really be taking a turn for the catastrophic, considering he'd ended up with her.

Hawkeye sighed. He wasn't nearly sober enough to fully address the irony of it all right now. The strangeness of it. Of them.

He glanced out of the corner of his vision to where she sat without turning his head, seeking her motionless form out with bleary eyes. Losing focus he then smiled sadly at the ceiling. His world was turning gray but she still seemed to stand out in brilliant, light color.

He liked that. He smiled to himself. Margaret was his color.

He was struck suddenly, by the faint words of a song he didn't entirely recollect. Strange words in a different language.

_Kyrie Elaison. _

The translation came to him as if from nowhere: _Lord have mercy_.

And from that same dark, obscure corner of his mind there appeared a very old, very clear memory.

He closed his eyes against the sharpness of the image.

When he was very young his mother used to make him go to church with her. Hawkeye smiled unfocusedly, remembering. He was beginning to enjoy not seeing in muted tones, even if only for a fleeting moment of memory.

The musty smell of the old, stone building. He breathed in deeply trying to recall every detail. Streams of colored light filtering through the stained glass of windows.

He blinked, realizing something about the brightness reminded him of Margaret. Or Margaret reminded him of it.

He didn't know anymore whether those kinds of boundaries existed within his consciousness. He closed his eyes again, remembering. Recreating.

He hadn't thought about church in a long time.

Hawkeye always asked why his father never went with them—insisted on knowing _why his father didn't have to go!_ But his mother would simply smile at him, squeeze his hand, and say this was their special day, just for them.

Hawkeye felt very sad remembering his mother's smile. Sometimes when he closed his eyes he could still see it. It remained like a tiny point of light in his mind, the memory always whispering underneath his thoughts, as if to remind him of some kind of hope he'd forgotten.

And so he went to Sunday Mass. Damn near every weekend, he recalled wistfully.

Not because he wanted to, or really even enjoyed the service. He didn't understand much of it, and he was always hot and bored.

Hawkeye cringed a little, knowing how petulant a child he'd been. He'd hated being ordered to do anything. And he realized with only mild annoyance, nothing had changed in that regard.

It's possible that he acted more like a child here in this present than back then, anyway, Hawkeye only half-joked to himself.

But something made him go with his mother all those years ago. Something which won over his everlasting obstinacy.

He wanted to be with her.

Maybe even then, even as a child, he'd somehow understood that time was short. But then, time was _always_ too short with his mother. Ancient feelings of regret and dulled grief washed over him, and he knew in that moment that some things don't ever go away. Some memories never totally fade to black.

Going to church meant being with her.

He knew it now.

And he'd heard those words sung. The Kyrie Elaison. He didn't understand what they were singing at the time. How could he? What does a child know about divine mercy? Or circumstances necessitating it, for that matter.

But the sound the words produced was mournful and beautiful. Something that puzzled him, wounded and infused him.

The achingly graceful notes meant more things to him—to his childhood perceptions of beauty and love and what life _could_ be—than he'd then been able to articulate with the voice of a child.

And yet, he couldn't find the words now, either. He frowned.

Maybe some things can never really translate, he decided. Maybe even listening is an act of translation.

Then she died, and Hawkeye never went to church again.

He rolled onto his side to face Margaret, who was blearily watching the ceiling next to him. She sat in a similar position—leaning back against the wall, her legs dangling to the floor. He noted hers dangled significantly farther from the ground than his, and smiled. He liked how small she was.

He was vaguely aware of one of her hands resting on the back of his neck. He turned his head a little into her palm for a moment. Hawkeye used the momentum from this to lean slightly toward her face.

"Do you understand?" He asked her seriously. His thoughts were blurry and for a split second he wondered if he had in fact asked her out loud.

Hawkeye thought his chances were pretty good. He'd been mixing himself up less and less lately, so, odds were he genuinely had vocalized. Maybe.

If she said yes, he'd know.

Margaret was nodding slowly, still staring unfocusedly at the ceiling. Hawkeye frowned at her. She wasn't listening.

He slowly, deliberately reached toward her and rolled her to face him. Immediately, where his fingertips gently gripped her neck he felt a surge of electricity. Trying to ignore the shiver that ran through his body at the sensation, he leaned forward.

"Margaret, do you understand?" He asked again, beginning to grow impatient. She looked puzzled. Hawkeye leaned farther forward to look into her eyes so he could be sure she would hear him.

"Kyrie Elaison." He told her, trying to make her understand how important it was. He clasped her shoulder with his other hand, shaking her a little.

"Kyrie Elaison," he repeated more loudly, slowly, extending the syllables, accenting the foreign sounding tones. Margaret furrowed her eyebrows at him for a moment.

He had to stop the corners of his mouth from turning upward at the gesture. Dammit. She was distracting him.

This was important and she was going to make him forget everything but _her_. Again. He could already feel the desire to lose himself in her rising in his brain, elevated by her closeness, by the way he breathed in the scent of her hair.

It was intoxicating, the need. He could feel blood pumping beneath his fingertips where they lightly touched her skin and the desire to run his hands over more of her was growing too maddening to halt.

No. Hawkeye stopped his thoughts, trying to control the quickening beat of his heart. He'd realized something imperative and he needed to focus.

She smiled a little, nodding as if she understood. Hawkeye grinned at her, and it was all he could do not cover her mouth with his. They were so close, he could feel her breath on his face, feel the warmth of her body turned toward his. He ignored the electric current now running palpably between them.

"See?" He asked, still smiling widely. Margaret nodded enthusiastically. Hawkeye couldn't handle it anymore. She was too close to him, was all around him, and her smell was making him dizzy, spiraling his drunken senses out of control, into orbit.

He looked down and saw Margaret gazing at him with an expression on her face that he was certain he had never seen directed his way _at work_ before. It looked like...hunger.

When Margaret absently licked her lips Hawkeye could feel his eyes darken as his gaze followed her tongue.

One moment her own tongue was licking her lips and suddenly there was a warm, wet mouth on Margaret's, a tongue slipping its way inside, hands pulling her against a firm masculine body.

He kissed her mouth lightly, immediately trying to retrace the path her tongue had just cut. He felt her smile against his lips, and used the opportunity to deepen the kiss further, loving the feeling of her satiny tongue next to his.

Her hands were everywhere, running over his chest, tangled in his hair, clasping the sides of his face. In response Hawkeye traced the lines of her back urgently with his fingers through the cotton of her thin t-shirt. Delightful shivers rewarded his explorations. He loved how sensitive Margaret was to touch, _his_ touch.

Hawkeye quickly found the hem of Margaret's shirt and pulled it over her head letting his mouth follow it along her skin. He felt Margaret rest both of her hands on his chest and curl her fingers to let her nails bite into his skin, as his mouth ravaged the side of her neck. The moan from her throat sent his blood rushing even faster through his veins.

Hawkeye reached down and grabbed Margaret's hands and placed them up around his neck as he quickly unfastened the clasp of her bra. Pulling her arms around his neck tight, he was able to move even closer to her, plastering himself hard up against her from shoulder to groin.

Hawkeye felt himself spiraling into the atmosphere, beyond reach. He didn't care anymore. Margaret raised herself up on her elbows and maneuvered her body onto his until she was straddling his hips. For a split second their eyes met and he was momentarily halted by the dark expression in her eyes. He couldn't move.

She brought her mouth down to his once again and the momentum they'd briefly lost regained its feverish pitch. He felt an immediate rush of relief when her body returned to his. God he needed her to be closer.

Hawkeye reached up and pulled her body down until there was no longer any space between them, relishing the sensation of being buoyed to the cot beneath them. When he felt Margaret's teeth on his shoulders his eyes rolled back in his head.

* * *

Hours later, when he awoke once more the tent was silent and still. He looked at the ceiling for the second time that night, only this time he could see without squinting. Hawkeye sighed, feeling the effects of the alcohol dissipate with each passing moment.

Sober again. He thought sullenly. Let the fun begin.

He inhaled slowly, feeling Margaret's breath against his shoulder. At least he'd been able to get some sleep. These past few hours had been the most sleep in…he couldn't calculate, couldn't remember the last time he'd been unconscious for that amount of consecutive time.

So that was something. Hawkeye sighed.

He glanced down at Margaret's face where it rested on his shoulder. She had one arm slung over him, as if holding him there—keeping him there—even in sleep. He couldn't help but smile watching the seriousness of her features. Her pale, delicate skin shone in the dim light, contrasting starkly with the darker shades of his chest. In this light, he could barely see the dark circles under her eyes.

He liked this, liked waking up before her. It felt like winning somehow, being the one awake. Being able to watch her as much as he liked without worrying that somehow weakness would be construed and he would be vulnerable—open to attack. Hawkeye pulled the Army blanket up more tightly around them.

Here, in the brief period of time when darkness and light existed at once, he felt oddly peaceful. Maybe because, as he was right now, lying with Margaret in the silence of her tent, blood spattered scrubs were but a dim memory. But a small voice in his head reminded him it couldn't last.

He closed his eyes tightly against the thought, shifting slightly. When he opened his eyes again, he realized that Margaret was watching him from under heavy, half-closed eyelids.

"Hi." She said quietly when he met her gaze.

Hawkeye smiled thinly at her, and realizing for the first time how cold he was, reached around her to where his t-shirt rested on the table. He put the shirt on, trying not to jostle her too much. He eased back against wall, and without realizing, he tightened his arms around them.

When he stopped moving she settled back down on him, resting her chin on his shoulder once more. He watched her for a moment, watched her lying there.

He realized more and more that despite how much smaller in stature Margaret was compared to him, there was a strength to her body, a touch of iron. You could see it in the lines of her back, the movement of thin strong muscles under her silky pale skin. He chuckled inwardly. She didn't just take it. She gave it back with so much passion it was a shock to think it could reside in that small frame. He knew this for a fact.

Margaret leaned her head in against him just over his heart, and seemed to be listening to its rapid, reassuring beat. It was keeping time to some music that always seemed to exist between them. She rested her palm flat against his broad chest and exhaled a contented little sigh.

"What?" He rumbled softly.

"I can hear your heart," she whispered. He paused at that.

"I expect you can." He drawled slowly, unsure.

Margaret considered this. "Hawkeye, before, I think I was sleeping to the sound of it," she stopped a moment and then added almost inaudibly, "and I felt safe. It's been a long time, feels like an eternity."

It was always too easy to get lost in the sensation of her hands roaming softly over his chest and the soothing feel of her. He wished now he hadn't put his shirt back on.

"Margaret, do you believe in God?" He asked quietly, enjoying the way her hands felt on his skin.

He didn't know why he asked her that. What was it about her that made him say things he didn't dare even to say to himself?

"I think I used to. But now?" She paused, thinking. "Now…now, it's hard to look beyond all of this." Her voice sounded small, sad. He cocked his head to watch her and wondered if Margaret would recover from this war. Not for the first time, he marvelled at how much she'd changed in the time they'd known each other.

"Yeah." He replied, still watching her face, wishing she'd say something else.

"Do you?" Her question caught him off-guard. He looked at her for a long time.

"It's funny." He said, aware that it really wasn't at all. "I've never really considered it all that much, and now, well…"

"The Kyrie Elaison?" She supplied, fixing him with a bemused look. He looked back at her sharply. She continued, "Before, you were trying to make me understand something, I think. You kept saying it: Kyrie Elaison."

He didn't say anything, just stared back at her, wondering how much he wanted to really disclose. _The extent to which he was slowly losing his mind, perhaps?_ That same, small nudging voice from earlier suggested.

"I've been having these dreams lately." Hawkeye blurted out to stem the voice. He realized what he'd revealed. Well, hell. Now I have to go on or she'll think I'm already completely off the deep end, he berated himself.

He exhaled slowly before continuing. "About my mother." He stopped, that wasn't altogether true. "Well, sort of," he amended. "She's part of it." He stopped, trying to gauge Margaret's reaction.

She nodded. "Dreams about your mother? That's not so bad." Margaret nudged, rubbing his arm encouragingly. He looked away and felt his face darken.

At his silence, Margaret continued. "Do you think about her a lot?"

"I hadn't thought about her in a long time." He wondered suddenly if perhaps that was the problem.

"You don't…mention her much." Margaret was saying, drawing him back to the present. "No, I don't." He agreed, his mind elsewhere, remembering.

Margaret seemed unsure about how to respond. "I'm at her funeral." He provided, trying not to betray too much emotion in his voice. "In the dreams, I go to her funeral."

Margaret raised her eyebrows expectantly and remained respectfully silent, waiting for him to continue. He willed his voice to remain level. "And tonight, I remembered going to church with her when I was a little kid. I remembered what she told me about the Kyrie."

He halted, raising his eyebrows at Margaret indicatively. He vaguely remembered her as being some religion or other, possibly Catholic. Hawkeye waited for a glimmer of acknowledgement, intuitively assuming Margaret knew what he was talking about. She nodded at him, understanding.

He stared at the ceiling and exhaled heavily before admitting, "I liked it. It was so sad. But I liked it. I told my mom that and she smiled." He looked wistfully at the ceiling. "She smiled." He repeated in a whisper more to himself than anyone, feeling very sad.

He met Margaret's gaze, speaking more purposely. "She tried to tell me, tried to explain to me. There are two parts, you see. To the Kyrie." Hawkeye paused, watching Margaret, making sure she was still with him.

Her eyes were locked on his, listening so intently he could feel a physicality in it, a solid element that made him slightly nervous.

He looked back up at the ceiling, trying to get his thoughts in order. "Kyrie means Lord, and without the second part it's just a question. An unanswered question without hope for reply."

Hawkeye absent-mindedly stroked Margaret's hair as he continued in a more contemplative tone, "But the second part means hope. The 'Have Mercy' part. It means there's more than just a question. That even though we can't see it there's still hope that maybe God hears us, after all. That he might answer." He spoke more quickly now, feeling the momentum of his thoughts carrying his voice.

"But I think I realized tonight there was more at stake in this. Singing the Kyrie you assume something." He looked down at Margaret, speaking very slowly and deliberately. "You assume that God cares either way." He touched her cheek, searching her eyes.

He whispered, "More than that, you assume that there's a God to hear you."

"And what did you decide?" Margaret's voice was quiet, gentle. She watched him as he considered her.

Hawkeye took a long time to reply. "I don't know about God," he started, trying to make sense of his thoughts, "but I know that my mother trusted God, when she died, I mean. She trusted him enough to die without fear. I know that. The day I saw her for…the last time….she said she wasn't afraid. That I shouldn't be afraid, either." He frowned. "And when she told me about the Kyrie she wanted me to understand. And I want to understand."

He shook his head, sadly. "But I can't. How can I?" Hawkeye took a breath, tried to focus. He looked into Margaret's eyes, feeling lost. "How can there be a God when everyone dies alone?"

There. He'd said it. The niggling worm of dread had been named. Now she knew the truth, and he could never take it back.

"What?" Margaret was staring at him intensely, her eyes boring into his.

"Everyone dies alone." Hawkeye rubbed his eyes tiredly. "You once told me that."

Margaret looked aghast. "I did?"

"Well, some part of you did."

Margaret knit her brows, waiting for him to explain.

He sighed, knowing exactly how crazy this sounded. "I told you, I've been having these dreams."

Margaret looked at him sideways for a moment. "And I was in one?" She asked slowly, sounding mildly incredulous.

"Yes." He replied, watching her seriously.

"And I told you that everyone dies alone?" She sounded aghast.

"Yes." He patiently watched her piece things together.

Margaret considered this, her eyebrows still knit furiously. She looked at him for a beat. "But what does it mean?" She finally asked.

"I don't know," he admitted, smiling sadly at her.

"Well, why would _I_ say that to you?" Margaret's voice had risen in volume.

"I don't know." Hawkeye repeated, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. She seemed not to notice, but continued thinking intensely, her eyebrows almost violently ramming each other.

"Well, there's got to be a reason." She declared, more to the empty space around them than to him.

He studied her face, suddenly aware of being very tired. "I don't know, Margaret." He supplied with only a hint of the desolation he felt.

Margaret laid her head once more on his shoulder, away from his eyes. He'd clearly troubled her with this line of questioning, but he didn't know what to do. He wished he hadn't told her about the dream. But he couldn't take it back.

"Do you believe that?" He quietly asked after a moment, genuinely unsure of what she would say. He had to know.

"What?" She asked, her voice vibrating soothingly against his skin.

"That everyone dies alone?" He patiently reminded her, aware she knew exactly _what_.

"No, of course not," was her brusque reply.

"Okay." He wasn't going to push it any further, mostly because it was a relief to hear her say that. Hawkeye knew if Margaret didn't believe it, then the dream couldn't be real. And he might be free.

Suddenly, Margaret lifted her head, gazing at him with an intense, unreadable expression on her face. For a moment he thought it was anger, but then, then, she seemed to drain, until all he could see were the dark shadows under her eyes.

She watched him for a long time, seemed to be searching for words. "I don't know." She finally admitted. She looked sad, sad and very, very tired. "I don't want to believe that," Margaret wavered. "But maybe…maybe some things are just true whether we believe them or not."

"Margaret." Hawkeye interrupted, laying a hand on her arm. He sat up, pulling her with him. He smiled at her, certain. "I _know_ you don't believe that." And he did. He suddenly felt an intense need to assure her of this. Maybe he was only assuring himself. Hawkeye brushed the thought away, and reached for her.

Margaret moved to cross her legs underneath her, sitting Indian-style across from him. She pursed her lips. "What makes you so sure?" She searched his face, and he knew she was trying to believe him.

He studied her for a moment. Clad only in the t-shirt she'd slipped on earlier, which looked too big for her—_he'd _probably left it here at some point—she looked younger somehow. Her skin was pale in the dim light of the tent, and her eyes glittered, waiting for him to respond.

She was anxiously watching him, needing an answer. Why was he so sure? Hawkeye was suddenly aware he knew the answer.

He looked seriously into her eyes. "Because I know _you_."

She cocked her head to the side, pausing to study him, probably watching for signs he was joking, he guessed. "Do you?" Margaret asked seriously, she seemed to be genuinely attempting to figure it out herself.

"Do I?" He repeated, wanting to hear her say it.

She gazed at him carefully for a long time, considering this. She seemed to finally come to a conclusion. "I guess you're right." Margaret spoke deliberately, trying to rationalize it even as she said the words. "I _don't_ think I believe that...everyone dies alone." She affirmed slowly, tucking a strand of hair thoughtfully behind her ear. His eyes followed her fingers, pondering this.

Hawkeye smiled at her. "Because you believe in God," he asserted matter-of-factly, vaguely aware that she seemed to have conceded to something else as well. Something to do with him that he was afraid to think too sharply upon.

"No." She slowly reiterated. He quickly met her gaze, puzzled. Margaret's face was pensive. "I'm still not sure about _that_." She continued. "I think it's because…because I believe in man."

He looked at her quizzically, not comprehending. Not sure he could follow where she seemed to be leading.

She continued. "I think, you're right, the Kyrie asks for help from God. _I_ remember that much from Sunday School. But maybe it's not really in the way that you think. More like, men can only save themselves. Help each other."

"People helping each other?"

Margaret frowned, reasoning out loud. "Well, if there is a God, then maybe that's how mercy is exacted. Sort of like, God is the best in man. The capacity for good."

Hawkeye leaned backward against the wall of the tent again. "If that theory is true, Margaret, then God must be dead. Or else sadistic. How can we talk about the best mankind can offer when we're _here._"

Margaret looked at him for the first time in a while. She moved to lean on him again. "Well, maybe that's the point." She reasoned, resting her head on his shoulder and inhaling slowly against him. "Maybe, we do the best we can." Margaret laid her hand on his chest, over his heart. "Maybe that's why it's called faith."

Hawkeye absent-mindedly tucked his leg underneath hers, intertwining them. "In the middle of a war you believe that?" He asked her doubtfully, turning his head to rest on her soft hair.

"Yeah." He saw her smile out of the corner of his eye. "Where else?"

He felt himself smiling. For the first time in a long, long time. "Maybe you're right Margaret." Hawkeye offered, wondering if he believed it, or if he was just relieved.

Margaret bolted upright, gripping his arms and regarding him, surprised. "I'm right?" She repeated skeptically, the quirk of a smile on her face. "I'm right?" She said again, waiting for him to verify.

"Maybe." He closed his eyes, leaning back against the tent once more.

"Maybe?" Hawkeye heard her repeat. He opened one eye. She was watching him, smirking, propped up on her elbows. "Because I think I need to mark the date on my calendar, if that's the case. I intend to celebrate the day annually." She continued to smirk at him.

He answered by pulling her up toward him and kissing her soundly on the mouth. She smiled against his lips, tucking her hands underneath the hem of the t-shirt he'd re-donned earlier. He shivered at the contact.

"Margaret!" He nearly yelped. "For someone with such a _hot_ temper, you have some cold hands." He took her small hands in his and rubbed.

"Sorry." Margaret chuckled. "My fingers are perpetually chilly. Donald always used to yell about my cold toes." She immediately winced, realizing what she'd said. Margaret gently removed her hands from his and leaned back against the tent.

She started to apologize but he interrupted her. "How is Donald?" He glossed. "Do you ever speak to him?" He rolled to lie on his side, propping his head on his elbow to watch her.

Margaret regarded him, relieved he'd taken her discomfort in stride. "Not really." She answered, and Hawkeye could tell she was affecting nonchalance. "I think I heard he was up for promotion recently." Hawkeye couldn't miss the note of melancholy in her voice.

She got that look on her face, the guilty, tired look. Hawkeye shook his head. He sat up, gently tilting her chin to search her eyes. "Be happy you got out of there while you could, Margaret." He brushed her cheekbone with the back of his knuckles. "Donald was not, and still isn't worth your attention. Or your guilt."

"I know that." She said reflexively, sounding as if she wasn't too sure. He shot her a skeptical look. "I _do_." She emphasized, taking his hand and placing hers on his palm. He tightened his fingers around hers. Margaret continued. "He was absolutely, without doubt a cheating, dishonest, thick-necked oaf." She smiled self-appraisingly at Hawkeye, who added a few less tactful epithets to the list in his head.

"It's not him personally, really." She continued looking down at their hands. "I guess I just feel like that was my one shot. And I failed." She said more softly. "Or was doomed to fail."

"That's not true, you know." Hawkeye wasn't entirely sure what he was assuring her of, but he couldn't stand that look on her face any longer.

She shrugged. "For me, Donald will always just mean…my own personal failure." Margaret leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I think I do know what you mean." Hawkeye laughed softly. "Margaret, for two such _attractive_ people, we sure do 'fail' a lot. With relationships I mean."

He was only half-serious, but Margaret lifted her head and nodded, considering this. "Maybe it's because we're too self-involved for someone else." She suggested, after a beat. "Too busy with our own lives." He wondered if she was trying to make herself feel better or just spit-balling.

Hawkeye cocked his head, smiling a little, willing to engage her theory. "That's an interesting thought." He cocked his head, really considering it. "So you and I, respectively, we're too _selfish_ to have a successful relationship? Is that what you're saying?"

Margaret nodded, looking bemused. "Guess so."

He shook his head, not entirely convinced. "That's an easy excuse to give." Hawkeye commented.

"Yeah." Margaret agreed, turning over to press her face into the side of his chest. She looped her leg through his.

"Too easy." He breathed, wrapping an arm around her.

"Probably." Margaret murmured into his chest. She started to tuck her fingers under his shirt again, but he caught her hand and covered it with his own.

"Good try." He said softly, half-smiling at the attempt. She laughed into the cotton of his t-shirt.

Presently, silence fell in the tent. He listened to the sound of Margaret's breathing, trying to deduce if she was asleep. Hawkeye thought about their conversation. Not for the first time, he wondered about them.

"Margaret?" He spoke softly, not wanting to break the quiet more than necessary.

She made a muffled sound of acknowledgement into his chest.

"Do you think if…you and I…" He searched for a word. "…_tried_." he finished lamely. "Do you think we'd…" He remembered the euphemism they'd used earlier, "…fail?"

She was silent. For a second, Hawkeye thought she was a sleep. He felt his chest vibrate when she finally affirmed, "Most likely."

He wasn't sure if she was kidding or not. "Why?" He asked to be safe.

"Because I hate you." She reminded him. Without moving she added, "Remember?" She snuggled closer, tucking her other leg under his and breathing deeply.

He laughed into her hair. "Yeah." He repeated tenderly. "You're right."

Epilogue

As the first pale streams of morning light filtered in through the tent walls, Hawkeye rose quietly. Margaret didn't wake when he gently shifted her, pausing to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He hadn't slept, yet he felt rested. Maybe Margaret was sleeping for both of them now. Maybe that was okay.

He shrugged on his thin Army jacket, and decided to head to Post-Op to check on the soldier he had run away from so quickly last night. The camp was quiet.

He often found himself awake at this time of day lately, though he'd rarely taken the time to appreciate the scenery, the calmness of the morning. Now, as he studied the world around him, it seemed different, somehow.

Like it was just a place, and not some horrendous scenario in a dream. Hawkeye continued walking, feeling more awake than he'd felt in a long time.

He was aware of the cold, but didn't really experience it. He ducked into Post-Op as the sun appeared on the horizon.

All seemed well inside. Quiet. Oddly peaceful, all things considered. Hawkeye nodded at the nurse on duty, filling out paperwork at the desk, and made his way toward the only patient in the room. He knew, rationally, there wasn't going to be anything surprising. But there was still a tiny jolt of fear threatening to halt his steps. He managed to close the distance and hesitated. _Bite the bullet_, he commanded.

Grabbing the chart, he breathed relief. Nothing. This kid was home free. In more ways than one, Hawkeye amended enviously. Still…

Surely Margaret was right. How could there be no God when two of his prayers in the last 14 hours had been answered?

He stood for a moment and watched the boy sleep. Did he dream? Hawkeye wondered. Probably all about Mom's apple pie and his girlfriend Tina from home, playing baseball and watching television. Simpler things.

Meanwhile, Hawkeye sighed, he enjoyed recurring visions of bizarre funerals and cryptic messages. But then, it was probably for the best, he mused sarcastically, a little bitterly. Wouldn't want to get bored.

He replaced the chart and walked out the door. He didn't bother to stifle the sigh of relief that escaped his lips when he breathed fresh air.

So he _was_ still a little crazy. Maybe now he was on the upward slope. Maybe. Hawkeye closed his eyes, feeling a light breeze on his face.

He decided to head to the Swamp before breakfast, change his clothes. As he walked a little further, he could just make out BJ's figure in the dim light. He seemed to be heading toward their tent as well. Hawkeye jogged, closing the distance between them.

"'Morning." He offered, falling into stride beside his friend. BJ glanced at him. He looked tired, haggard.

"Morning." BJ replied. "I feel like I should still say, good evening." He added, with marginal humor in his voice. Hawkeye nodded, wondering what time it was, the sun was only barely visible on the horizon.

"Long night?" He intoned, after a moment.

BJ chuffed. "After I left Post-Op last night, the Colonel asked if I would walk into town, see to an expecting mother." He cocked his head, smiling thinly. "Delivered not one baby, but two."

Hawkeye grinned crookedly at him. "For the price of one. The clearance sale approach to childbirth. So it was a productive night then, I take it?"

BJ looked at him oddly. "For all involved." He answered inattentively. He stopped abruptly, turning to study Hawkeye's face. "You're looking chipper this morning." He noted with slight amusement. "All went smoothly last night, then? No surprises?"

Hawkeye nodded an affirmative. BJ raised his eyebrows, waiting for him to elaborate. When Hawkeye didn't speak, BJ regarded him oddly.

"Well, I think I'm going to try and get a couple hours of sleep in before the fun parade marches on." He said, running a hand through his hair. "You coming back to the Swamp?"

Hawkeye shook his head. "I'm awake, now. Maybe I'll go find something to eat." He thought he might just walk a bit more, too, but he didn't want to get into details when BJ was clearly exhausted.

BJ looked at him for a moment. "You okay?" He asked, a glimmer of concern clearing the fatigue from his gaze.

Hawkeye smiled at his friend. "Yeah. I'm okay." And he was. If only for the time being, he was okay. He clapped BJ on the back. "Get some sleep."

As BJ started to walk away, Hawkeye called out, "Hey." Hawkeye took a step toward his friend. "You want to go to Rosie's tonight? I mean, if we're not otherwise engaged patching human beings together? We've all been under a huge strain lately." He shrugged. "It might be nice to blow off some steam."

BJ smiled. "Sure. Pick me up at 8." He said, a thin smile still on his face. He turned to leave once more than called out "Oh, hey." The tall man spun halfway on his heels. "We should ask Margaret, she's pretty worn-out, too, I think. If that's alright with you." He added, raising his eyebrows. Was that a twinkle he saw flash across his friend's eyes?

_Shouldn't be a problem_, Hawkeye thought to himself, smiling wryly. "Good idea." He assured BJ. "I'll be on my best behavior." He added, and BJ rolled his eyes. He turned to leave and Hawkeye watched him walk away, starting to notice chill morning air biting through the material of his jacket.

As Hawkeye began to walk toward the Mess Tent, he noted the sun had risen more fully over the hills. People would be waking up soon, the camp would come to life.

He had no idea what would happen today, and maybe there would suddenly be an influx of wounded, or some other type of catastrophe might occur. He shoved his hands in his pockets. For now he looked forward to tonight. Hawkeye smiled to himself. One step at a time, he thought.

He remembered what Margaret said. About believing in man. He didn't know if he could completely subscribe to that theory right now. Maybe _now_ was a good time to try.

A/N: Wow. So, I realize I've done the unthinkable, leaving these stories for so long. I assure you it was hard for me to let them go. However, I am home for the summer from school for a bit, and I fully intend to catch up. This story might be finished, I might do another chapter, I'm not sure. What I _do_ know, is that I just started work on Vacare again, and will hopefully post something soon. So, to recap, I'm awful, I should be bludgeoned for taking so long to update. In hopes of redeeming myself I vow to post more and soon. Well, many, many thanks to everyone patient enough to forgive my absence. You'll be hearing more from me soon. 


End file.
